


Inside the Fitting Room

by kaijusizefeels



Series: Russia Does It Better [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Butt Plugs, Dom Illya, I Can't Believe I Wrote This, Light Dom/sub, M/M, No Angst, Sex Toys, Sorry Not Sorry, Sub Napoleon, weirdly progressive 60s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 14:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10969407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaijusizefeels/pseuds/kaijusizefeels
Summary: Based on bryonyashley's prompt.  A missing scene forel3anorrigby's adorable response: The boys are shopping together for a suit. "Illya is annoyed at Napoleon’s non stop blabbering, telling him which suit fits him best". So he shoves Napoleon into the fitting room closet instead.





	Inside the Fitting Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [el3anorrigby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/gifts), [bryonyashley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bryonyashley/gifts).



> Thanks for bryonyashley and el3anorrigby for the inspiration. I wanted to continue some more in this lighthearted universe but was stuck. Here's to more "don't make me put you over my knees" Illya giving Napoleon commands in that dreamy voice of his. Still set in some weird amalgamation of the modern era and the 60s. In this universe, a character can say what's the worst that can happen and not tempt fate.
> 
> Not betaed. It's all my fault :D

“Be quiet!” Illya commands as he shoves Napoleon to the fitting room wall. Lips descend and lock onto his before Napoleon can voice a witty retort. He surges up onto his toes to deepen the kiss. At least they can both agree that this is a far more pleasurable activity than bickering about each other’s lack of fashion sense.

Illya pulls apart far quicker than Napoleon likes. “Peril?” he asks.

“Do you? Can I?” Red blooms across the blond’s cheek, voice deeper and accent heavier than usual.

 _What._ It takes Napoleon’s distracted mind some embarrassing extra seconds to understand what Illya is asking. _OH._

They have been talking about it on and off after that fateful visit to the nondescript sex toy shop months ago, more fanciful than serious, Napoleon thinks. Their occupation doesn’t exactly support a 24/7 bondage lifestyle. Never mind being caught in compromising circumstances by their enemies, the thought that Sanders might find out and taunt him about it causes him to shudder internally in revulsion.

And yet the part of him that craves the thrill, the reason he made that fateful, stupid, irrational decision for one more heist despite knowing Interpol was closing in on him, is eager to throw caution to the wind. So what if Sanders find out, Napoleon hopes that the embarrassment of finding out that his most effective (ex)agent loves to bend over for a KGB agent would give him a migraine or worse.

  
Besides, it’s the start of their official vacation. Waverly promised that he would not contact them unless there is a world-ending crisis.

Napoleon thinks about the pretty sales assistants staffing the mostly empty store full of middle-aged shoppers and families; this place hardly seems like a suitable launchpad for any world domination scheme. What’s the worst that can happen?

So he turns around, presses both palms against the wall, and gives Illya the most lascivious come hither wink he can manage. “Well, I hope you came prepared, Peril.”

Illya remains frozen in a daze for so long that Napoleon has second thought that maybe he has misinterpreted. “Illya,” he starts and suddenly finds his entire body pressed firmly against the wall by a substantial bulk.

“Cowboy,” Illya whispers him between frantic kisses. “So good for me. Yes, good boy. My _kotik_.” Napoleon preens at the praises. Tension drains from his body.

His pants and briefs are quickly and efficiently pulled to his ankle. Calloused fingers tease his half hard erection but mercifully do not linger. Illya is as single-minded in this as he is on a mission and his intent is—

“Perillll,” Napoleon moans into his forearm when those fingers scissors into him, spreading a cool wetness inside him. Illya has been prepared, little surprise there. Now that he is aware, Napoleon realizes how empty he has been since last night. He aches for more.

“Wet it.” The smooth metal body of the butt plug is presented to his lips. At least it’s one of the beginner sized ones in their kit. Napoleon knows how fond the Soviet educational system is of throwing students into the deep end of the pools first. Gratefully, he kisses it before taking it into his mouth, cold metal clanking against his teeth.

His tongue swirls around the tip but yearns for Illya’s fingers instead. Maybe he says it aloud or maybe Illya, in addition to his many extraordinary talents, can read mind because Illya chuckles and says, “not enough, Cowboy?” The cruel brute jabs hard at the tiny spot inside him that peels away all of Napoleon’s sophistries in an instant until he is nothing but a nerve of want and need.

“Capitalists always want more. Shameless,” Illya nips at his ear before taking the plug from Napoleon's mouth and firmly pushes it past his defenses and deep inside him. Napoleon lets go of the breath he’s holding.

It’s less intense than he feared, maybe hoped for. Much slimmer than Illya, neither the length nor girth of the plug present much of a challenge for him these days. Really, Napoleon chastises himself; he doesn’t know why he made them wait so long to try this. If it makes Illya happy, he should have agreed a long time ago.

He watches Illya wipes his hand on a handkerchief as he smoothes his hair back into a semblance of neatness. Napoleon can only hope that tousled hair is a style that comes into fashion soon.

“Well, Peril, that tie still doesn’t go with that suit,” Napoleon smirks at him and takes a step toward the exit, intent on going back to the tie rack to grab some tasteful choices for Illya— stars bursts across his eyes as the plug shifts into position at his movement, now firmly pressing against a thousand nerves inside him.

Napoleon would have collapsed if it weren’t for Illya’s arm around his waist. He buries his face against that side of that strong neck to muffle his moans. “Doing ok, Cowboy?” Illya asks, sounding concerned rather than teasing.

Napoleon whimpers. He holds himself as still as possible while Illya makes soothing motions down his arms and back. Eventually, Napoleon is able to pull himself together enough to let go of Illya. He pulls in deep breathes and takes another tentative step. Napoleon feels like he’s learning how to walk all over again. He looks to Illya, defense ready at his tongue for any sign of smugness but Illya just looks awed and gazes so fondly at Napoleon that he feels an answering blush on his face.

Well, he has faced more difficult challenges and came out on top. Napoleon Solo can manage to get out of a fitting room closet without any help. He smoothes down his jacket and realizes another problem.

Napoleon angrily glares at Illya as he is forced to button _all_ the buttons on his suit jacket. A bit of his soul dies in response to this fashion faux pas even though his dick hardens more in response, as if it likes the humiliation.

A look of self-satisfaction creeps back into Illya’s face. “Presentable, Cowboy?” He asks as Napoleon, slowly and with deliberate steps, follows him out. “After this, what do you think about lunch?”


End file.
